Maithiúnas
by Melanthe Vida
Summary: A badly injured Spike stumbles onto Angel’s doorstep. Love, blood, insanity, and one burning question: will you always come home no matter what?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Joss owns all and is to be worshipped. And James Still owns the poem at the beginning.

Timeline: Season Two Ats. Major spoilers up to Redefinition.

**A/N**: I've taken some liberties in regards to the layout of the Hyperion because I don't have cable anymore nor any Angel DVD's in which they are still at the hotel, so I can't go back to old eps to study what the place looks like.

Changes to the Season 2 plotline have been made, so in a way, this fic is AU (but nothing extreme; the boys are still vamps and Spike hasn't somehow ended up in a band)

Rated **R** for m/m, violence, and language.

* * *

_I asked the fox to forgive me.  
__He spat as he died.  
__I asked God to forgive me.  
__I don't believe He will.  
__Is there no pardon anywhere?_

-"Death of a Fox" by James Still

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

_Thwump, thwump, thwump, thwump_. Persistent pounding on my door which I fully intend to ignore until—

_Thwump! _

"Oi!"

I fumble with my book, having nearly dropped it out of shock, and set it on the table.

_Thwump! _"Hey!"

I know that voice.

_Thwump!_ "Open the bloody fuck up!"

I manage to bring together my only two properly functioning brain cells long enough to grab a stake while he continues ranting slurred, muffled words through the thick wood of the door. God. What the hell is he doing here?

"–an' I can hear ya bleedin' wheels turning in that Cro-Magnon Nancy skull o' yours so don'tcha sodding pretend you're not insi—"

I swing open the door and he falls silent. Though I knew for a fact he'd be there, it's still…alarming. That's the only word I can come up with right now.

One of his hands is still curled in a fist and held up as though he's about to knock again. I can detect the strong scent of blood—his own blood—and whiskey on him. The source of the latter dangles from the black-nailed fingers of his other hand in the form of a nearly empty bottle. Clenched between bloody, split lips is a smoldering cigarette. Faded black jeans hang low on bony hips, the top button missing. His belt dangles from the loops, only partially buckled and carelessly so at that. Normally bright blue irises are dark, the depths not quite sane.

But these are not the things I pay any particular attention to. No, what I pay most attention to is, he's here.

He's here and all I can do is stare at him. I'm not sure if I want to take him in and wrap him up and make sure he's safe or slam the door shut in his face.

Never tearing his gaze away from mine, Spike lowers his arm carefully. It takes him several tries, but he eventually manages to work out the hand-eye coordination needed to remove the cigarette from his lips. He expels a stream of smoke in my direction, then stumbles over empty air. His hand shoots up to grip the doorframe in an effort to keep himself from falling flat on his face.

"You gonna lemme in, peaches, or 'm I 'sposed to camp out here all night?"

I set aside the stake, buying time as well as getting rid of the thing. It seems silly to have it now, considering a) he's swaying like a leaf in a windstorm and b) he's already impatient sober. When drunk, Spike will make sure you know his intentions the moment he spots you five miles away.

Especially if that "you"happens to be me.

He lifts a questioning eyebrow. With a sigh, I step back to let him through. What else am I to do? He is the boy Drusilla happily dumped into my arms a hundred and something years ago, he is the fledgling who grew to be my mortal enemy, he is my goddamned liability.

He is mine, whether I want him or not.

Spike shuffles through the doorway and trips on the doorjamb in the process, plunging forward. I catch him and as I do, I am shocked to feel the individual pieces of his ribs shifting beneath my touch. Not to mention the fact that I can feel his ribs, really feel them. Christ. What the hell did he get himself into? He's always been thin, but this is ridiculous—I'm almost afraid to touch him. Seems like the slightest pressure will snap him in two.

The exact moment he regains his footing, Spike pushes me off stubbornly. The movement appears to be too much for him and he nearly collapses again with a curse. I help him up once more and this time I let go before he can shove me off and fall over yet again.

He looks like he's going to bolt any second now, even as he places one careful, unsteady foot after the other in an attempt to move up the stairs. Five steps up, he carelessly sets down the green-glass bottle. It perches precariously on the edge of a step before tipping over. There's a _thunk_ and a _crash_ and I decide I'll make Cordelia clean up the mess in the morning.

Spike, clearly not registering the fact that the bottle has been reduced to broken bits, drops his cigarette on the steps as though it were still there. I snatch up the burning one-inch stub before the entire hotel can go ablaze.

Spike pauses and turns around, a deep frown creasing his forehead. His eyes travel to the empty spot where his whiskey was just there a few moments ago. He blinks twice, then turns back and continues the rest of the way up. Several minutes later, he stops short before my room, no doubt recognizing it from its scent.

"In there," I say, shattering the silence for one brief second.

He hesitates. Bloodshot eyes dart uncertainly to me before returning to his boot-clad feet.

"In there, Spike." There's a touch of annoyance in my words and he raises both hands in a defensive gesture. He perches on the edge of my mattress.

I start to run a hand through my hair, but stop, startled, when I notice a cigarette still between my thumb and forefinger.

With a frown, I scan the room for somewhere to put it while Spike shrugs off his duster. Eventually deciding that there is no better home for this smoldering item—which is scattering ash all over my carpet—I drop it into an empty glass of blood. When I turn back, I almost trip over empty air, too. My mouth hangs open and I stare in a sort of horrified fascination.

Spike has stripped off his t-shirt to reveal a pale chest marred with deep purple bruises where his ribs have snapped and a large, bloody gash across his stomach.

"Looks worse," he says indifferently.

_((and you've done worse to him, haven't you?))_

"What happened?" I ask. It isn't until he responds with a, "Nothing wrong with my hearing, mate," that I realize I'd spoken too loud. Too loud in order to

_((done worse to him, haven't you))_

bury the accusing thought. Bury the nights of scarlet raindrops and blooming blue-black flowers on a perfectly smooth alabaster landscape, decorated only with thin red crisscrossing rivers.

I shake myself, intent on focusing solely on Spike and the present. I can't deal with both him and memories, thoughts, best left untouched.

"Sorry," I say, lowering my voice. "What happened?"

His only response to my inquiry is a shake of his head.

"Oh." I try to come up with something better to say, but I can't and to be honest, I probably shouldn't. Conversation has never been my strong suit; conversation with Spike even less so.

Perhaps going back to the basics is a good idea. Basics. Right. Which is to get Spike fed.

After debating for several seconds, I drop my fangs briefly, long enough to slash open my wrist.

Yes, I am perfectly aware that I own a completely serviceable microwave in which I could heat up a some blood for him instead. Yes, I am also perfectly aware that Spike probably doesn't want to partake in an activity as intimate as drinking from me.

But the practical angle of it is that pig's blood isn't going to get him healed. As for the not so practical angle, I refuse to entertain it.

Spike watches the blood well from my cut. It's so quiet I can hear the individual spatters as several drops hit the floor.

I check the urge to tell him to drop his pride for once and feed already.

"It'll help you heal faster," I say instead. "Don't tell me you want to spend any more time here than you have to."

Unable to deny the truth of my words, he scowls and takes my wrist, and begins to sip cautiously.

He has only been allowed to drink from me twice. Once when he'd taken on more than he could handle and had bled enough to keep him lying in bed for a whole twenty-four hours, probably more if I hadn't disregarded my own sire's demands that I not let him take blood from me.

I had a lovely scratch down the side of my face to show for my disobedience the rest of the day.

The second time was when Darla had lost her temper

_(("stop _bringing_ that idiot child our bed!"))_

with the both of us. I hadn't faired much better than he had, but I was still decades older and quicker to recover.

When he has had his fill, I set to work cleaning and bandaging his wounds. I try to ignore the way his eyes follow me beneath half-lowered lids in a manner I would deem curious if I didn't know better. There is something about those blue depths that can carry a strange childlike innocence.

But Spike is far from curious. What he is doing is reading me.

He used to think I wouldn't know when he was watching me, used to think the way he hooded his eyes with those long lashes would fool me. He started like a frightened mouse when I finally told him that he might be fooling himself, but he certainly wasn't fooling me. He knows better now, but the habit stays nevertheless.

And I don't bother to hide whatever emotions I am currently experiencing. As much as I hate to admit it, it is nearly impossible to hide how I'm feeling from Spike; he spent a good part of twenty years mastering the art of evaluating me in an attempt to escape—or sometimes to provoke—the worst of my moods. If it's not what I say, it's what I do or even the way I stand.

As I wrap a bandage around his midsection, my fingers brush his smooth, pale skin and I hear his breath catch. Not expecting such a reaction from him, I glance up and he sets his jaw angrily.

I decide not to comment.

I can't help but wonder what he was doing in L.A. in the first place—he was obviously here prior to getting hurt. I doubt he drove all the way from Sunnydale just so he could get patched up by me. That he came to me at all is surprising enough.

The exact instant I put the finishing touches on the last bandage, Spike shoots up unsteadily and reaches for his shirt, as though he has been readying himself to do so for some time now.

My fingers close around his wrist to stop him and he literally jumps under my touch. Startled, I pull back. But he's stopped trying to dress.

"Spike, you can't leave," I say. "You can't even stand on your own two feet."

He gives a derisive snort. "Can too, ya bloody, sodding ponce of a tosser, 's not like 'm an invalid or sumthin' and ya know even then I was—"

"Spike." I interrupt his nonsensical rambling. "Stay for a night at least. You're completely drunk, anyway, and I'm not risking any unfortunate L.A. residents who might cross paths with you and your lack driving skills."

He glares at me. Anger and frustration with a hint of wariness. Five seconds tick by. Six. Seven…

And as they do, I begin to question the brilliance of making such an invitation. Because

_(("someone wasn't wooorthy"))_

_(("she really is just kind of fickle"))_

_(("i said SHUT UP!"))_

Spike and I have managed to redefine the phrase "not getting along" over the past hundred years or so. And the last time he was around

_(("well, what say i grab a pair of needle-nosed pliers and give a hand?"))_

I ended up with a few extra holes in my body.

So why is it that I feel so relieved when he sits back down on the bed?

His hands travel to the ragged waistband of his jeans and he begins to tug down his zipper—

I quickly reposition my eyes to a spot on the wall behind his head, willing them not to gravitate downward. Christ, why does it take so much willing? Years, countless years, apart, and you'd think I'd have gotten over it by now…forgotten even. But I'm not one to forget. I can remember every one of my victims and I can remember every moment with my boy, from a rain-soaked cemetery over some unknown tomb to that time I

_((chained him to the ceiling for four days when he dared choose Drusilla's bed over mine))_

that time I…

_(("you've a lovely scream, boy"))_

…I…Oh, screw it. Hadn't I, only moments ago, promised myself I would only concentrate on Spike?

Right.

Spike. Spike, who is wearing that damnable smirk of his. When I finally bring myself to meet his gaze, he wiggles his eyebrows and tilts his head suggestively.

He knows. Of course he knows I want him. And dammit, I don't even care. I just want him to get his ass in bed and nicely covered up. Which he does eventually, cocooning himself in the cotton sheets, dark lashes resting lightly on pale skin.

And as I watch, I so desperately want to crawl in there next to him. A century ago, I would have. A century ago he would've snuggled against me and I'd have run my fingers through his soft, brown hair.

But I am stuck with the reality that this is not a century ago. This is now and Spike's hair has long since turned blond.

So I bring in a chair and take up residence in that instead.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Sometimes I come to L.A. for no real reason. Maybe I'm tired of listening to Harm chatter on and on. Maybe I get bored of Sunnydale. It's certainly not because I want to see him, but am too chicken shit to go knocking on his door.

Either way, I come here, get drunk in a bar somewhere, and head back.

Always drive past his apartment, I do. Even gotten out of my car once or twice, though I've never gone in. Tonight probably would've been no different, either, if it weren't…well, if it weren't for the chip, really.

Because I can fight off demons twice my size, I can hold my own in a brawl with eight other vampires, but I cannot stop myself from getting…cornered…in an abandoned alley by a bunch of sodding mortals. Of course, the fact that the alleyway was in all swirly may have had to do the fact that I ran into them in the first place.

Anyway, I'm not sure how I managed, but I somehow found my way to that enormous, penis-envy castle of his—'cause the last place apparently wasn't large enough—while bleeding all over my car seat and while the streetlamps and cars in front of me did weird wiggly dances.

Really wish I hadn't come. Why did I come? Why the fuck didn't I just drag myself into my car and drive back to my crypt? Given a day and a hefty amount of whiskey, I would've been fine.

At least I've had my hefty amount of whiskey…though I'm starting to think it may not be such a good idea. 'Cause there're two Angels now and God knows one of the tosser is more than enough. Then there's also the fact that I can't seem to stay on my feet properly, which means the pouf has to go all heroic and catch me. At the very least, he could've let himself be dragged down in the process. Mm. Remember what it was like to be on top of him, I do.

No, actually, that's not true. He was always on top of me. But either way, it was nice…

Oh, Jesus. Apparently, I'm not wasted enough to stop these goddamn thoughts.

Goddamn vampire constitution.

I need more. Lots more. Why didn't I bring another bottle with me? And why is the bastard still holding onto me?

I push him off, but the room spins wildly at an alarming rate and I lose my balance once more.

Bloody hell.

He catches me again and those annoying brown eyes fly open when he feels my ribs shift. Not entirely sure why. I mean, _I_ can't hardly feel a twinge, ta very much to the wonders of alcohol. But what the hell. Let him carry my pain, he's got everyone else's.

The second time he sets me back on my feet, I manage to stay there and, through much concentration, even make it up the steps and into his room. Like a bloody showroom for anal-retentiveness, Angel's room is. Everything's properly tucked into their respective places. I briefly consider moving his lamp an inch to see if he'd have a nervous breakdown or something, but it's too far and it keeps splitting into twos, then fours, then twos again. It's making me right nauseous.

I slip off my jacket and shirt myself 'cause no way in hell am I gonna let Angel undress me. I'm not that drunk. Fortunately. Or, wasn't I thinking that was _un_fortunately just a few moments ago?

Ah, fuck it. Whatever.

Sire's looking all wide-eyed again. As if he hasn't seen worse on me plenty of times. As if he hasn't caused worse plenty of times. Foreplay, he called it. Unlike with Darla, with him it was always foreplay and never punishment—his libido too often got the better of him for it to remain punishment.

Even now he wants to fuck me. I can smell it on him, see him attempting to hide it as he moves about the room, digging out bandages and shit and desperately hoping, but doubting, that I won't notice. Under normal circumstances, I would find this extremely amusing but he distracts me by standing there with blood dripping out of his wrist. His blood. What?

I blink. Twice. Nope, it's not a hallucination.

Which is really too bad. 'Cause, fuck all, I don't wanna take it. I won't take it. I'm not gonna take handouts from him. Jesus Christ, it's bad enough I crawled here, I'm not gonna bloody let him feed me, too.

But the sharp smell of his blood is

_((safe))_

enticing and

_((familiar))_

to be perfectly honest, _starving_ doesn't do my current state justice. Why couldn't the stupid git just give me pig's blood or something? Is it really that hard to open a sodding microwave and press a button? Why does he have to bloody go and complicate everything the fuck up?

"Don't tell me you want to spend any more time here than you have to."

I glare at him. Arrogant, assuming son of a bitch. Who just happens to be right.

No, what am I saying? He's never right. He's an idiot with as many brain cells as his hair gel and I'm not going to take it, except it's already too late 'cause I can feel sweet, coppery taste flow past my lips and down my throat. Even when he pulls away, the thrilling sensation is still there, and it only doubles when his fingers run lightly along my stomach.

Apparently having caught my reaction, Angel glances up.

Sodding hell. That's it. I'm gonna go. As soon as he's done, I'm gonna grab my stuff and go. Because he can't know how I feel about him. He can't, he threw away that right long ago. Threw away the right to know that I will never be completely free of him.

As proven when I finally do turn tail to run and he grabs a hold of me.

And I stay. I stay and it's not because I can't stand on my own. We both know that's a lie.

But for now, I'll pretend it's not.

Besides, he may be right about the being plastered bit. Though it appears as though the Angels have merged into one again.

I strip off my jeans and he predictably averts his gaze, chaste little girl that he is. He hasn't offered me his bed, but he doesn't need to. I know his guilt-ridden shoulders will prevent him from making me sleep on the floor. Or not. It doesn't matter; I'm not sleeping on the goddamned floor either way.

I climb into his bed without any prompting and lay there, surrounded by his scent as I pretend to sleep.

He doesn't join me, of course. It's been too long for that, and even back then, we rarely slept in a bed together. Most times, he'd fuck me and then kick me out of the room before Darla could find us. I almost always spent my time in Drusilla's bed.

But I still remember what he smells like, of vanillachocolateice. He still does.

I can feel him staring at me, as he sits in his chair, and I'd really like to open my eyes because this is stupid, me feigning sleep. _Us_, actually—I know that as soon as my eyes open, Angel's would immediately snap shut. And I want to cut the bullshit. At the very least, I want him

_((here with me))_

to quit

_((here))_

_watching_ me, for God's sake, I want him to stop watching me, I don't want him here…and

Bloody hell. Fuck it.

Deny it as I might, the fact remains that I do…I do want him here with me. Because I still remember. Still remember those two hours in January, heavy snow outside, and the two of us curled by the fireplace, with him reading the few pieces of poetry I'd kept, hidden, until he'd somehow managed to dig them out. Still remember those few nights of tender kisses…and all right, so _tender_ might be overstating it a tad—Angelus was never one for tender anything, particularly when in the throes of passion—but tender enough for him. For me. I remember it all, little moments, precious and rare and stuffed in between the blood and betrayal.

Does he remember? Does he remember anything other than his sins, his bloody incessant guilt, guilt he so wrongly believes will make everything better?

Probably not.

On a whim, I

_((remember dammit don't you remember?)) _

sit up. As predicted, Angel's lids slam down immediately, but open again half a second later when he realizes that he's just being a moron.

We stare at each other in a silent confrontation.

"Angel?" I whisper finally.

"What is it, Spike?"

_((holdmesireholdmekissmeyoubastardneedyouhateyouwantyou))_

I lie back down. "Forget it."

Five minutes later, I hear a soft scraping as his chair shifts. By the time I wake up in the late afternoon, he's gone, but the chair is now only inches away from the bed.

* * *

The End! Just kidding. 'Twill be continued... 

/pokes Submit A Review button/ And yes, feedback, please. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to **MarieP,** **Isabella Rossellini**, **kina**, **SpikingJennsAngel**, and**Angeloholic** for reviewing.

* * *

"…really rather strange occurrence. Wouldn't you agree, Angel? …Angel? Angel!" A frantic hand belonging to Wesley waves in front of my face, snapping me back to reality.

"Huh? Uh, yes. Yes, that is…rather…rather strange…" I fake hopelessly.

"Are you all right?"

"Oh. Sure, sure. I'm

_((just hiding a killer who tortured me about a year back and whose main goal is to drain my ex-girlfriend))_

fine. Perfectly fine."

The expression on Wes's face announces clearly that he believes me as much as he would believe a paint-covered two-year-old's claim that no one had messed with the paints.

Okay. I need to let him know delicately. I need to be firm in my decision.

I need to tell him before Cordelia gets here.

"Wesley, there's something…I need to talk to you."

Much to my bewilderment, Wes immediately adopts a near—panicked look. "It was Cordelia's fault! She insisted that we spend your money on the—"

"What? No, Wes, that's not why I—you spent my money?"

"Oh." He clears his throat. "No, no. Now is clearly not the time to discuss such trivial matters. You were saying?"

"I was…well, see, I don't exactly know how to say this, but I—he—he's—" I take a deep breath. "He's here."

Wesley frowns. "Who is 'he', precisely?"

"Spike. Spike's upstairs."

"Spike as in William the Bl—" An ear-splitting screech cuts him off.

"Oh my God, Spike's _upstairs?_!" There's a loud clatter as the owner of this new voice fumbles through her purse for a cross, holy water, a stake, or possibly all three.

Wesley looks at me with an expression I can't quite decipher. It appears to be a cross between alarmed and amused and…something else that suggests he's not exactly thrilled with the thought of William the Bloody being upstairs, either. I myself am scanning the room as if there's an escape hole I've yet to discover.

Cordelia finally manages to pull out a stake and stares at me. "Angel, why are you just sitting there?"

I cut my eyes away in a manner that in no way suggests I am being completely evasive. Cordy won't let it go. No, of course she won't. It's Cordelia we're talking about here.

I shift nervously and twiddle my thumbs.

"He's here at your invitation, isn't he," Wesley says. It's not a question.

I glance up briefly. "Yes. No. I mean, not exactly. I mean—I didn't call him up and ask him over, but I…let him in."

"What?" Cordelia takes a step back and holds up the stake as though it were a cross. "Oh, God! You reunited with Buffy, didn't you?"

I press two fingers against my temple. "_No_. I'm not evil, Cordy." I don't bother adding that had I lost my soul, I would've chained her up and had some fun already. Nor do I mention that I'd really like to do that right now so I can avoid this painful confrontation that will ultimately end in a major migraine and a possible guilt trip for me, and Cordelia storming out.

She gawks at me in utter confusion. "So why—?"

I inhale and exhale slowly in an effort to calm myself and quickly discover it was a waste of oxygen. "I found him outside my door last night and he was hurt, so I let him in."

"He's evil, Angel. He—he's _Spike_. Remember? The Smurf? The Ring of Arm—Ara—Aurora—"

"Amara," I fill in, falsely hoping that my correction will place her in a more agreeing mood.

She waves a hand dismissively. "Whatever. The point is why didn't you stake him?"

Picking up a pencil, I begin to drum it on the edge of my desk. Anything to keep my hands busy so I won't wrap them around her throat. Or quite possibly my own. Because how do I tell her that I cannot stake Spike no matter what, simply because he is mine?

I can't.

Instead, I respond, "Look, he can't hurt any of you guys. He has a chip in his head or something, according to Willow." I hesitate. "He'll be staying here awhile."

If possible, Cordelia's eyes grow even wider. "_Staying_ here? Angel, please don't tell me you're pulling another Faith because—"

My last shred of patience gone, I drop the pencil with an all-too-loud clatter. "Cordelia, please!"

Her mouth snaps shut and she quickly covers up a hurt look, causing my Guilt-O-Meter to slide up another several notches. Someday, it might very possibly overload and crash, but I'm still waiting.

She throws up her hands. "Fine. Just don't expect me to come running when you get strung up and kebobed again." She stalks out of the foyer without even bothering to close the door, tossing a, "You know, at least Faith had a _soul_," over her shoulder.

I look at who may very possibly be my remaining friend—maybe not even that—and sigh. "Don't start, Wes. I know I'm crazy to have him here."

"No. No, I wasn't going to…to 'start'. I will say, however, that I don't understand your decision. And I think it's extremely foolish of you—"

"Wesley—"

"—but I will respect it."

"Thanks. I appreciate that." I wave toward the entrance, its door still ajar. "You might as well go home and sleep or…read or something, too."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I'll call you if anything happens."

"All right." He starts to leave, then stops, his hand resting on the doorknob. "I hope you know what you're doing, Angel."

"Me, too," I say softly to the closing door.

Spike is staring at the ceiling when I arrive ten minutes later with a mug of steaming blood in one hand.

"Hungry?"

"Not really." He sits up and takes the proffered mug anyway.

A quiet, smothering stillness envelopes us once more.

I clear my throat, wondering if I should approach the subject of exactly what happened to him last night. "So, uh…"

Spike slams his mug abruptly on the night table. Red liquid sloshes over the brim and slides down the side of the mug onto the wood surface.

I glance up, startled. "What?"

"This isn't working," he states flatly, getting up.

"What?" I'm having difficulty extracting a different word from my vocabulary.

"This." He waves an arm in a wide arc. "Me. Here. I never should've come." He throws on his coat and makes a move towards the door for the second time. It's starting to feel like some sort of purgatory.

I block his path. And—

Why did I do that? If he wants to leave, all the better, especially since he's mostly recovered overnight. No more nagging from Cordelia. No more constant debates within my mind. Back to simple, to that clear line between black and white.

Spike tries to push past me, then groans when he can't.

"Bloody hell, Angel, just get out of my way."

"Spike—"

"Christ, you're such a goddamned wanker!" He runs his fingers through his hair so violently it causes his already mussed blond curls to stick up in random directions. If it weren't for the current situation and the deadly expression on his face, he would look utterly adorable.

"I shouldn't have come here," he says again.

"You're right, you shouldn't have," I shoot back, my patience dissipating once more. "But you did, so don't run out on me just because you feel like it."

"You did." Two words, spoken not with accusation, but as simple statements of fact, and perhaps that is what hurts most. He gazes at me, fiery blue eyes that bore into mine until I look away because

_(("you're leaving again? you just bloody _got_ here, Angelus, rebellion's just gotten started, and you're leaving? bloody hell"))_

_(("Will, i…"))_

_(("are. you. stay. ing."))_

_(("Will—"))_

_(("don't _call_ me that. tell me if you're staying"))_

_(("perhaps"))_

_(("liar. liar! you fucking liar! she spent every fucking night screaming for three bleedin' months the last time and she won't look at me now and if you're not gonna stay, then tell me you're not, don't give me your bollocks!"))_

_(("i can't stay, William." shock in his eyes at the whispered words. he didn't expect me to admit it. he opens his mouth and i cover it with mine before he can utter a word. kiss him, taste him, only once, thinking it's the last time i ever will))_

Thinking and not knowing what would happen decades later, when he has traded in his light brown locks for bleached blond, his legs for a wheelchair. But those weren't kisses, were they? No, not kisses. Nothing but acts of dominance, his lips and tongue just one more thing for me to bruise, bleed, claim.

_(("you did"))_

"I know," I whisper at length.

"Yeah? Glad you do, mate, 'cause that alone makes everything all sunshine and pansies." He shoves me out of the way roughly. Caught off guard, I stumble back and he manages to get through this time.

I close my eyes. "Please. Will." I feel him freeze behind me.

"Bloody ponce," he murmurs. "'M not your lapdog anymore. I'm not gonna come running just 'cause you call my name." But his footsteps are growing closer.

And this is really, really stupid of us. Because he's right: this isn't working, most definitely never will. No amount of watering could get anything but thorns to grow on our rosebush.

I don't care.

And I can't say that I don't feel responsible for him. I do. But that's not why I want him to stay. I want him to stay because maybe things will work out. I know he hates me. He hates me and he will never forgive me. And an outsider will say there is no hope whatsoever, but I know better. Because hope is nothing more than diamond-encrusted lies and if he stays, I can lie to myself just a little longer.

I can tell myself that maybe, just maybe, I will not fuck things up this time.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

God, why is it that only he can make me feel this way? "Will," he says, and it doesn't matter how many Slayers I've killed or how many Watcher books I'm in or how long I've been on my own; I'm a fledge all over again.

And I hate it. I hate that he still has that power over me and I hate the bastard and this is why I should just leave right now and never, ever come back. This is why I should beat the shit out of him so that we can go back to being mortal enemies. I want him to kick my ass. Hell, I'd be more comfortable if he tried to dust me.

Because it's what he's supposed to do. It's what I know; it's what I can handle. I _know_ what to do if he comes at me with a stake.

I have no idea what to do with this.

But he says my name, and it's all I can do to suppress the shudder that runs through me, even though there is only a shadow of that bloody sire tone shining through.

That bloody sire tone that shouldn't even be there in the first place. He's not my sire.

No, that's a lie. He is. He might as well be. Might as well be the one who drained me that night, might as well be his blood running through my veins. Dru may have been my destiny, the love of my life, and I was her Spikey, her Prince, but she never really knew me. To know someone requires an attention span of more than five minutes.

Angel was the only one who truly saw me. Who knew _me_. And yeah, he was an asshole and most of the time I spent with him I spent bleeding and when I say he knew me, it's not some kind of romantic shit. He knew I was toy, his childe brat, his little pet. His challenge. Damn straight, I was a challenge. But I was real to him. For once in my life, I was real to someone. Wasn't I? When I recall back those worshipful hands, that sex-roughened voice, yeah, I was real.

Note, however, my use of the past tense. Because right now, I'm fairly certain the only thing he sees when he looks at me is a century of soulful regret.

Not that it really matters in the physical sense, what he sees now. He's still the one who makes my blood hum when I'm near. He is, he has to be. Because there has to be something to explain why I'm so fucking drawn to him.

Has to be something to explain why, instead of walking out like I should, I brush past him, sprawl out on his bed, and light a fag.

I don't want to do this. I don't want to stay.

He never

_(("i can't stay, William"))_

stayed for me.

I wait for Angel's "no smoking" tirade, but it doesn't come. He just gives me a quick glance before gesturing towards the open door.

"I'm gonna—"

"Yeah." I cut him off before he can say that last word.

I don't wanna hear it.

You'd think I'd have learned by now. You'd think I'd have learned that nothing is for fucking ever.

But I was Dru's bitch and Angelus's whore, I am love's slut, and I am a masochistic bastard who cannot love without fistsfangsheartache and I will never. Catch. On.

Ever.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Day ten. It's been ten days since he showed up at my door. Nine nights. Two hundred and thirty hours. I didn't keep track of the minutes; I'm not Wesley.

"…completely blind, Wes, you know that?"

"But it can't possibly be that creature, we haven't even identified it yet! Besides—"

I push my chair back and stand up, causing Cordelia and Wesley's hundredth or so argument over exactly what Wolfram and Hart raised in that box to grind to a full halt.

Cordelia gives me a chagrined look; Wes simply glances down in resignation.

"What?" I intend for an innocent tone, but it comes out guilty, as pretty much everything I say does.

"You're going to see him again, aren't you," she says. No inquiry here, only a statement.

I try to come up with either a plausible explanation as to why I'm checking up on Spike for the fifth time in an hour or a comment that might possibly distract her, but short of writing her a check, the best I can do is, "I'll be back."

Cordelia throws up her hands in a huff. I chance a look at Wesley, but there's no real support there, merely a reluctant agreement that seems to say he knows there is no point in getting me to do otherwise so he won't bother wasting his time.

That's good enough.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Spike is rarely quiet or still when awake and he's the same in sleep. He moans, he wriggles, he purrs, he growls, he tangles himself in the sheets until it's a wonder he can disengage from them come sunset.

But there are two things I have never witnessed him do: whimper and shake.

He's doing both now.

I approach the bed slowly. I don't have a clue what to do. I'm no stranger to the nightmare department, of course, what with my five century stint in Hell, but I've always been on the receiving end after getting my soul and prior to that, I simply didn't give a damn as long as whoever was dreaming

_(("Drusilla, if you don't stop that goddamned whimpering…"))_

_(("fuck off, Angelus, she's having a nightmare"))_

didn't annoy me.

Another step. He still hasn't woken up. Am I supposed to wake him up? Or am I supposed to let him ride it out?

Oh, Jesus. Even _this_ is complicated. I want simple. Is that too much to ask? I want one day that goes by where I don't even have to _think_ in order to make up my mind.

Thankfully, my indecision is resolved when Spike jerks upright, eyes glowing gold, baring his fangs. "Darla?"

"Huh?" The last thing I expected him to utter was my sire's name. "Spike, it's just me."

"Oh." He shakes away his game face. I can see him trying desperately to regain his composure.

"Are you okay?" It's a damn silly question. As though I'm even considering the possibility that he might actually do something other than blow off my concern.

Spike flops back down on the mattress, bravo facade firmly in place once more. "'M fine, ya pouf."

I almost ask him about the Darla thing, but then decide against it. I doubt I'd get much more out of him than a glare and some variation of "Piss off."

I'm two feet away from the door when his voice stops me. It's so quiet that my enhanced hearing can barely pick it up.

"Stay with me, Angelus."

I turn around and say the only thing I seem to be capable of saying of late: "What?"

He doesn't answer me. He knows I heard him the first time. He's watching me, propped up on one elbow, his head titled casually. Letting me know that he is offering me a chance; that this time, unlike the night he showed up here, it's not because he has no other choice.

And I'll be damned if I don't take his offer.

I slip under the covers beside him so that we're nearly touching, but not quite. His back is to me, leaving inches between my face and his neck.

The first time he slept in my bed, he curled around me like a snake on a pole, until I told him that if he didn't give me some goddamned room, I was going to throw him to the floor. The second time I invited him to my bed, he did it again, but by then, it was because he knew it annoyed me and he knew that if I asked him in, I wanted him in, and I wasn't going to kick him out unless I really had to.

Days of easy touching are long gone, though, and now I find myself staring at his back and wishing I could run a finger down his spine. Could I? I don't know where the line is drawn anymore. Ten minutes ago I thought sharing a bed with Spike was out of my reach. Hell, not too long ago, I thought sharing a city with Spike wouldn't be possible.

And I shouldn't do it. I truly shouldn't…because I would be crossing barriers that have been set up for a reason. Barriers which, by all means, should not be brought down, lest I release something terrible. But dear God, the temptation is so strong and Spike is a very shiny, red apple…and I have never been good with resisting temptation. It's why I left Sunnydale, why I get news of things over there from Willow instead of Buffy.

So I stroke his hair, running my fingers through the blond strands which are sans gel for once. He doesn't pull away. Instead—sweet, merciful Jesus—he actually shifts closer. His shoulders are tense beneath my touch.

I spend the rest of the hours until sunset watching him slowly drift off to sleep, and holding him close, afraid to sleep, afraid to let go, in case it is all a dream and I will awake to find my arms empty and the right side of the bed vacant and there won't even be anyone there to tell me, sorry, Angel, guess you're alone again.


	3. Chapter 3

Whoa. So sorry for the long delay, guys, I had some beta'ing troubles. Anyway—thanks for all the reviews, everyone! I really appreciate them. Keep 'em coming. :)

Also much thanks to **Angelique Blanchard** for the beta job.

Here it is: Chapter Three at last!

* * *

Possibly my recent, unexplained dreams of Darla have put me on edge. Or perhaps I simply can't stand him sometimes—because let's face it, Spike could try the patience of an angel most times and I'm certainly no angel, my name be damned. 

So we're yelling again. Or to be more specific, I'm yelling and he's yelling and smashing anything and everything he can get his hands on.

The only reason the window hasn't been broken yet is because I'd decided not to replace it anymore after the sixth time it shattered. I'm not quite sure that's such a good idea now, however—several expensive glass and ceramic ornaments have flown out the window and I can only hope that no unfortunate pedestrians have been hit.

Don't ask how this particular argument started. I have no idea whatsoever, though I do believe it might have had to do with him spilling nail polish on my bed…Yes, that must be it; I can still see the black stain from where I'm standing across the room.

It doesn't really matter anymore. It's long ceased to be about something as simple as that.

No, we've lapsed into the dredging-up-the-past phase, which often means Spike yelling about me and my crimes and while there is no question that I deserve it, I also really don't want to hear about it. I don't want to hear how I stole his destiny. I don't want to hear about how I left him to take care of both Drusilla and himself, how I left him to Darla.

How I left him.

So I shut him up the only way I know how: by kissing him. It is never Spike who makes the first move. Why should it be? I can give as good as I take when it comes to insults, but there is nothing for me to throw at him that he truly wouldn't want to hear. So I kiss him first. It's how our nights—or days—together always start. We fight and I kiss him and then somehow we end up on the floor or, if we're lucky, the bed.

And when I kiss him and he kisses me back, running his tongue along my teeth, it feels as though more than just the fight has been forgiven.

Surely it's wrong, yet—I can save the helpless girl in the dark alley, I can avert the apocalypse, I can do all that, and I will get my heartfelt thank-you's and I-owe-you-my-life's, but I will never get my forgiveness. What have they to forgive? I never hurt them. Those I did are long dead. The few who are still walking received but a taste of what I am capable of—or are too insane to distinguish between pain and pleasure.

With one exception.

So when he lets me hold him, kiss him, and make love to him, is it really so perverse of me to feel as though I have earned my forgiveness at long last?

No doubt. No doubt as well that Spike knows what I am doing. He doesn't ever state it blatantly, doesn't even hint of it, but it does not matter because I know he knows. I know he knows when he bucks beneath me and howls anything but Angel. Sire, sire, sire, and sometimes Angelus, that is all he will call me, and I feel like grabbing him by the shoulders and screaming, "Look at _me_!" Look at me, dammit, see _me_, Angel, because I don't want to be some kind of half-assed substitute for Angelus.

I don't do it, though. Because Spike doesn't want to be a substitute for my redemption any more than I want to be a masquerade for Angelus, and isn't that what I'm doing with him? Aren't I making him my forgiveness when I fuck him?

I am. I am, so what right have I to complain?

None.

Oh, but it hurts. Hurts when he closes his eyes and I know it's not me he's seeing behind those closed lids. Hurts when he whispers in the night when he thinks I'm asleep; whispers of think-you'll-ever-shag-me-when-we're-not-yelling and not-yours-Angel.

And I each time, I keep my eyelids shut tight and pretend I don't hear it, any of it, that it is all simply one of those half-asleep dreams, until I even convince myself.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Night number forty-seven. I've given up calculating the hours.

And forty-seven out of those forty-seven nights, he's stayed rolled up or stretched out in a chair or the bed in various positions, watching TV—Westerns, dramas, action, soap operas (he appears to have a particular fondness for _Passions_)—it doesn't seem to matter what it is he watches. The program itself does not seem to be the point. Always beside him is a permanently overflowing ashtray.

He won't leave my room. No, that's not entirely accurate. He'll leave my room (or I suppose it's become his room now; I merely sleep in there) only to leave the hotel altogether in order to go out. Sometimes he comes back with a pack of smokes or a case of beer or various snacks (he consumes Twinkies religiously). Other times he comes back with cuts and bruises, and reeking of blood and, occasionally, sex, every inch of him daring me to question his state of being.

I've yet to take up on that particular challenge.

Not that I'd need to, not really. While I am not entirely sure if he purposely seeks the fights he gets into or if he is simply provoked, I know that when he goes out, most times he is intent on getting some blood, be it his own or someone else's. And always I want to lock him up, tell him to stay inside. Because I am seriously afraid that he will end up dusted or worse. I know what happened to him that night he appeared at my door and I know it's because of that godforsaken chip they shoved in his head.

But I quash the urge to restrict his going out. The only thing it'll result in is a contemptuous laugh, possibly a violent outburst, and him leaving anyway. Spike is a firm believer in the exact opposite of obeying your elders and years on his own—not to mention the eighties—has only strengthened that belief.

I swing open the door and, after peeking behind the contraptions that are now occupying the place (I once found him holed up between the television and a set of speakers staring off into space), conclude that he's disappeared yet again.

I sit down my side of the bed, on the left. For some reason, we can sleep in the same bed, stay in the same room, but we cannot talk to each other without ending up in a scream-fest and the occasional bloodied nose. I'm not sure why my side is on the left, either, or how it was decided. Perhaps because it's always been that way. Yes, that's it. Now that I think about it, I remember that he'd always claimed the right side of the bed the few times he was with me for the entire night. He used to sneak his left arm around me.

I pick up a random magazine and thumb through several of the thin pages before setting it down and eyeing the many changes in my surroundings.

Spike has gone through a remodeling phase since his arrival and there are now towering stacks of CDs (no doubt filled with the crashing metal trash cans and dying cats he calls music. I mean, _I_ make better music than the stuff he listens to) and DVDs of various genres from chick flicks to horror to porn. Beside the television located opposite from the bed, there sit two DVD players and a stereo that can only be described as an absolute monstrosity. In the far corner are issues of _Q_, _Hustler_, _Playboy_, and an impressive collection of _Rolling Stone_, some dating back to as far as 1973—a mysterious occurrence. I know for a fact he's been collecting _Rolling Stone_ since it debuted, but I also know for a fact that he arrived here with nothing more than a half pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Then again, he could've made trips back to Sunnydale.

I'm actually quite amazed that there is so much here, what with our—that is to say _Spike's_—destructive habits. And no, I didn't buy him everything. While I will admit to spoiling—fine, _bribing_—him somewhat, not everything is courtesy of my credit card; many of these items have been acquired by Spike of his own accord.

I continue to peruse the pile of magazines and as I do, what appears to be a large book catches my eye. It's leather-bound, old—ancient, actually—and it appears to be vaguely familiar…

I reach down to examine the item further, but am stopped by a bone-crushing grip on my arm.

"Get out of my fucking things!"

I stare into a pair of almost panicked blue eyes.

"Sorry," I murmur, bewildered. "I was…I was only looking…"

"Yeah, well, look the fuck elsewhere," Spike snaps, dropping down beside me on the mattress so hard the springs groan loudly. He snatches up the remote and begins clicking furiously.

"I'm sorry," I say again.

"You always are, Angelus," he replies, gaze fixed determinedly on the blurring images before him. "Especially when it comes to trivial things."

There is a bitterness in his words that makes me wince, but at the same time, I'm provoked by what he said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He gives a short, bark of a laugh that is devoid of any amusement. "You still don't get it, do you, peaches? After all this time, you don't get it."

"Don't get _what_, Spike?" I demand, frustrated by his cryptic answers.

His mouth opens, and then snaps shut again. "Bugger it."

"What is it?" I'm pushing the subject again, but the accusing tone of his voice as he made his earlier statement

_(("especially when it comes to trivial things"))_

is too much to ignore.

"Drop it, all right? Just drop it." I notice that the volume of the television has been getting consistently louder, as though he is trying to drown out my words.

"Will—"

There's a terrific crash when the remote control flies into the wall, narrowly missing my head and scattering bits of black plastic all over.

"Don't you 'Will' me!" Spike screams, inches from my face. I jerk back instinctively and nearly fall off the bed. "You don't deserve to. You don't have a fucking _right_ to make me feel that way, to make me feel as though I'm still yours! I'm not yours, Angel!"

I blink, too dumbfounded to do much else. Only my eyelids seem capable of any movement.

In a way, he's right. I never did hold him as he died on the haystacks, never did taste his mortal blood. But

_(("whose are you?"))_

he has always been mine.

_(("yours, sire." raspy, filled with lust. "always yours"))_

Drusilla was too mad to properly care for him. Darla, of course, couldn't care less, though she did care enough to have her fun with him every so often.

And so that left me.

Always mine.

_(("you knew_. _you _knew _she was mine"))_

Until I tore him apart, threw him away, and came back a hundred years later to take the only thing he had left.

_(("what with you being Special Needs Boy, i figure i should stick close to home. you and Dru can always use another pair of hands"))_

He's watching me, waiting for a response I do not have.

The minutes go by, unnoticed by either of us.

"She loved me," he whispers at last, more to himself than me. As if he is trying to convince himself. "Even though she was always waiting for you. She loved me."

And of course it always comes back to her. When does it not? He loved her deeply and she did so back. There is no mistaking what she felt for him as anything other than love. But Drusilla is little more than a child and, like a child, she easily tired of one thing after a long while. Like a child, Daddy was the most important figure in her life.

I know Spike resents that. He resents being second best, the one she turned to merely when I had no time for her. When I disappeared after my soul. He lavished attention on her, and I know he cannot understand why all she wanted was me. I know he cannot understand why she could take all the times I abused her—not to mention him—in stride, how she could watch as I

_(("get off me, you fucking bastard!" blood smeared face and useless legs, sprawled out underneath me on the floor and i can smell the arousal on him despite his words, though sheer rage overrides everything))_

_(("aw, come on, Spikey-boy. don't be that way. like old times, right? me…inside you…and on top, of course, but that's a given"))_

_(("GET THE FUCK OFF OF ME!"))_

_(("well, i'll get off _from_ you. close enough, i suppose. now come on, be a good boy, huh?"))_

took him right there in front of her, but couldn't stand to see him do nothing more than give me a good few whacks with a crowbar.

I take a deep breath.

"Do you remember," I begin slowly, "our first hunt together?"

His eyes flash in anger. "Stop it," he says harshly. "Shut the hell up."

"You stalked like you'd done it every night of your life," I continue, ignoring his interruption. "Seduced the hell out of those girls. And…and after I took you to the park and you watched the stars. You said they looked different from when you were human…brighter. I kissed you then—"

"Stop it!" He stands up and is at the door at the blink of an eye.

I don't stop. And he doesn't leave, just stands there with his hand resting on the doorframe, staring at his feet, his back to me.

I have no idea how long I spend talking. But something has changed by the time I have recounted every moment I can remember of us together, both of the good and ugly. By the time I've recited the speech I hadn't known I'd been preparing ever since Rumania until now. Something has changed. Though I don't quite know what.

My throat has long since gone dry.

He walks back to me, hesitant, appearing almost pensive, but there is not a trace of hesitation left by the time he is no more than a few inches away. And this time he is the one who kisses me, strong fingers winding through my hair, and he murmurs against my lips of, "You remember," and while I have no idea what he is talking about, I don't care.

He isn't mine. Not anymore. I understand that now.

_(("you can take what you want, have what you want"))_

But I can still have him.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Today is probably the first time he's come downstairs and actually stayed downstairs.

It's a quiet day, though. No visions, no demon attacks. I'm sitting on the couch reading _L'Être et le Néant _while Spike sits with his back against my arm, head leaning on my shoulder, and his legs hanging over the arm of the couch. He's playing with a handheld game console—which I did _not_ buy for him, by the way. I have no idea where it came from. It seemed to have just materialized into his hands one day.

It's likely he stole it.

The door opens and Cordelia steps inside the office. "Afternoon!" she greets brightly. Then she frowns and narrows her eyes.

It takes me several moments to understand why. When I do, I quickly get to my feet.

"Oi!" Spike yelps, falling flat on his back on the couch with the lack of support. He swings his legs over to the front and sits up properly. "Could bloody warn a bloke before you do something like that, pet. Hello, Cordelia."

Cordelia simply raises her eyebrows at me.

I shift nervously from one foot to the other and finally sit back down.

She opens her mouth, then closes it. Then: "Are you two—"

"_No_," I say the same time Spike interrupts with a, "Shagging? Sure."

Damn it.

I give a resigned sigh.

Cordelia just shakes her head. "Call me if you need me, boss." She makes a hasty escape.

"Is it just her you don't want to know, love?" Spike asks quietly when she's out of earshot. "Or do you just generally not want anyone to know?"

I lower my book slowly, a bit taken aback by his genuinely injured tone.

Despite having known the real William, I have to admit that his leather and black-painted nails and in-your-face attitude do fool me every so often—and I end up forgetting how sensitive my boy actually is.

"Spike, that's not it," I say. "It's—it was kind of a shock seeing Cordelia there like that and—I didn't…mean it that way."

He doesn't answer me, but he's looking at me out of the corner of his eyes. I can tell he's faltering.

I tilt his chin and press my lips lightly to his. If he's truly angry, he'll push me off.

He doesn't. Instead, his lips part to grant me entrance.

"Pillock," he states when I pull away.

"Yeah."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Full moon outside. The light casts a shadow over the sharp planes of his body, making it seem more angular than it is. As though he is made out of nothing but triangular blocks.

I prop myself up on one elbow to watch him, as I so frequently do. There is still a part of me which needs convincing that he is here, that this is not merely some blissful delusion.

He's quiet tonight, no dreams and no nightmares. Tonight he is actually still. He's not even breathing, as he often does.

Which is why I know he's not really asleep. He's thinking about something. A rare occurrence, considering he typically passes out after sex.

One set of eyelashes flutter, revealing a single blue iris. "Quit staring at me, ya prick."

I smile. "Thought you were sleeping."

He gives me a playful whack on the shoulder. "Can't sleep if you're bloody looking at me like that." His one eye closes, but they both open a second later. "Angel?"

"Yeah, Spike?"

"What is this?"

"What do you mean?" I know what he means.

"What is this that we have?"

I don't respond. I don't have a response. It seems to be the case lately.

"I don't know," I reply, cautious. "But…it's nice," I add tentatively.

It's not what he wants to hear. It's not the answer to his question. He wants to know if this is a lie, a sprinkle of rose-scented perfume on a barren rosebush. If there is something dark beneath the calm surface that will cause the eventual tsunami. Because it's nice _now_. But now is just that: now.

And a part of me cannot stop from wondering what would happen if Drusilla came knock-knocking. Because I doubt he'd be here if Dru hadn't left him.

I brush back his hair at last and kiss his forehead, the best I can offer. "Go to sleep, Spike."

He rolls over, seemingly doing what I asked him to. But he continues to remain completely motionless for near the rest of the night.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

For a second there, when I first woke up, I could've sworn we were in London and the year was 1880. Angel is wrapped protectively around me, a dopey smile on his face.

Then a car alarm goes off in the distance and I'm in L.A., 2000.

Angel is still holding me, though. I scoot closer, wanting to make the most of this before he wakes up. Because I'm damn scared that the last few nights never really happened and we'll just lapse back into our old routine of saying nothing or yelling everything. And fuck all, but I want this. I don't care if I sound like the sodding pouf himself. I'd sell the best inch of my dick just to have him holding me like this forever…

Angel stirs. "Darla, what's that noise?"

I jerk out from underneath him. _Darla?_

He did not just call me Darla. He did not just fucking do that. He was not thinking of that stupid _bitch_. He did not have the goddamned _audacity_ to fucking think I was her after everything.

Just…just no. No.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Hmm…this is a bit odd. I don't remember ever having bought lawn chairs, but I seem to be lying on one of them. And Darla is in the other.

She smiles at me and slides an ice cube down my chest.

I laugh. "Mmm…" This is nice. I'm quite sure I killed her, but well, I'm not complaining. It's refreshing to be content for once without the hazard of being handed a one-way ticket to Hell. Almost feels like a dream.

I turn to her. "Is someone else supposed to be here?"

"No, of course not," she replies. "Why do you ask?"

That's a good question. Why did I ask?

I shrug. "I don't—" An awfully shrill screaming in the background cuts me off. It sounds like a siren of some sort.

I frown. It's damn annoying. "Darla, what's that's noise?"

"_Darla_?" a familiar voice spits out with unconcealed distaste.

I snap open my eyes. Spike is staring down at me with an expression of sheer disbelief and outraged.

Oh. Oh shit.

"I—I was just dreaming…" I stutter. Who the hell invented that whole speaking in your sleep thing anyway?

"Like that makes it any better?" His eyes are taking on a not-so-sane expression again. "That you were dreaming of her right after sleeping with me? Bloody hell, Angelus."

"I wasn't—"

"The hell you weren't!" He snatches up his duster violently. He's fully dressed. When did he get dressed? I don't remember seeing him get dressed.

I grab his arm. "Dammit, will you just listen for a minute?" I take a deep breath and barrel on, not waiting for his answer. "I had a dream about Darla. It doesn't mean anything, all right? It doesn't…change anything."

A derisive laugh. "Bollocks. Did you wish I was her while you were fucking me? You did, didn't you?"

"That's not fair, Spike."

He shoves me against the wall with an animalistic snarl, one hand curled painfully around my throat. "Fair? _Fair_?" He starts to chuckle, and it quickly escalates into hysterical giggles. "Since when do you care about what's fair? When you fucked her while I was in that bloody, goddamned chair, did you think that was fair? Getting your due after ten decades of celibacy? Or how about all those little stupid _games _you always played?"

I know he's not talking about Darla anymore when he says "her".

"You're right, Angel." His arm drops down to his side. "It doesn't change anything. There's nothing to change." He laughs. "You know, I actually thought that something had? That even though we couldn't have a normal conversation without ripping into each other five bloody minutes into it, that you couldn't fuck me without us fighting first, it was still good somehow?"

I ignore his last statement, not willing to get into that particular topic right now, and seize his shoulders instead, desperate to knock some sense into him. "Spike, you're being unreasonable. I had one dream. _One_. About Darla. Don't tell me you don't dream about Dru."

His fist makes harsh contact with my jaw. I automatically punch him right back.

"It's not the same bloody thing!" he yells.

I swipe irritably at the blood trickling from the corner of my mouth. "Oh, and why the hell not?" And now I'm being unreasonable too. I _know _it's not the same thing. But fuck it, I'm way beyond the point of clear-headedness right now.

"She loves you! She never even bloody _looked_ at me in bed after you left, you know that? She'd always close her eyes while we made love and when she came, she either screamed your name or nothing." A barrage of items, from empty cigarette cartons to magazines to priceless ornaments go flying at my head as he rants. "It was always _you_, Angel! It always _is_ you, goddamn it, even for me, you and your stupid pine tree hair and that godforsaken _soul_, so what the hell do you have to be so damned insecure about?"

My mouth hangs open in utter disbelief. Not from the stuff about Dru, because that's nothing new…but those three words

_(("even for me"))_

squeezed in between everything.

I know he doesn't realize that I truly worry about him. I know he thinks he hasn't been tossed out yet because that would violate my whole quest for redemption. And of course I knew he was afraid of going on unloved. Spike _is_ love; it defines his whole life.

But I'd never considered that he would even think of me as a possible candidate, much less a winner—not now, not after everything I'd done to him. I'd always thought…everything we had from the day he showed up here, that, for him, it was simply a sort of comfort since he no longer had Dru.

I'd never considered that he in fact did…that I was the one he…

Oh, God. Maybe Cordelia is right. Maybe I am hopelessly dense.

I shake my head slowly. "You didn't…I never—"

"'Course not." His lips curve into a sardonic smile. "Never could see anything, Angelus, 'cept yourself. Which makes me wonder why it is that, when I slept in your arms for the first time, it actually felt like someone cared. Did you ever care? Did you, Sire? 'Cause if I think back real hard, sometimes I can remember that you did, once upon a time. But then I also remember when you broke my arms after you saw me give her a hug. When you fucked her in front of me."

I wince and he laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. "Yeah, and you want to know the best part, Angel, the absolute punch line? None of that even bloody matters because _I cannot stop loving_ _once I start_. I can't do it. I've tried, I've spent a whole fucking century trying, and I _still_ love you, you sod-all, fucking bastard!" He swipes furiously at his eyes with the sleeve of his duster.

I take a tentative step forward.

"Get out," he whispers. He sinks to the floor and pulls his knees up against his chest and buries his face in his arms, shaking shoulders.

"William…"

"Get out! Get out, get out, get out—"

Startled, I flee the room before my mind has a chance to catch up. I don't need to return ten minutes later to know that he has gone, but I do it anyway, peering cautiously into the junk-filled, yet empty room.

And I realize that I've just been deposited on my ass right back where I began the night he showed up at my door.

* * *

tbc...Any and all feedback will bemuch appreciated. 


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